


The Night Goes By

by BlueNeutrino



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Dean Whump, Dean-Centric, Episode: s12e09 First Blood, Gen, Medical Examination, POV Dean Winchester, Prison, Sick Dean, other characters appear in background
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 20:59:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11631810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueNeutrino/pseuds/BlueNeutrino
Summary: It's a long night when Sam and Dean first arrive at the prison, separated from each other to be strip searched, manhandled and humiliated before being thrown into cramped concrete cells.The nights that follow are longer.





	1. The First Night

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the SPN Canon Big Bang 2017. Thanks to darkheartinthesky and kittycat-cas for their beta work, and massive thanks to Loracine for her two wonderful art pieces! She captured what I was going for so well with so little to go on, given my tendency to procrastinate (please don't ask me how close to the deadline I finished this...)
> 
> This ended up being written in two parts which naturally follow on from each other, but can also stand on their own. Part one is a continuous narrative of Dean's admission to the prison while part two is snapshots of the weeks the follow. I realised in the process of writing it that there is a lot more I want to explore, which would have taken me outside the scope of the mini bang I signed up for but the ideas may lend themselves to future fics.

It's a long drive. Things are far from comfortable in the prison van, just a hard bench to sit on and heavy chains weighing down their limbs. Neither of them speak, an armed guard just feet away listening to so much as their breathing, but it doesn't mean they don't communicate.

Dean meets his brother's eyes: anxious. Scared. _Where the hell is Cas?_ is a thought that's occurred to both of them, and if the answer is that something bad has happened to the angel, they both know they're fucked. At least for now, having each other close by is a comfort. They don't know how long it'll last.

Time drags on. Five hours pass. Six.

At some point, Sam tries to sleep. He looks awkward, leaning back against the hard metal wall and closing his eyes, but Dean watches him protectively for long enough to figure it's not going to work. There's no way to get comfy, no way to shut their brains off from the anxiety long enough to rest, and all the while they're being watched.

How the hell they're going to get out of this is a thought that's running through both their minds, too. At least one thing they've reached a silent agreement on is not to talk. There's no story they can come up with that somehow explains what just happened, and even if there was, there's no way to corroborate it. The best they can hope for is to wait it out until Cas comes for them, which won't take more than a couple of days. Shouldn't. Or at least they both hope.

After a couple more hours, the truck rolls to a stop, and for a moment they both wonder if they've finally arrived at wherever they're being taken. Turns out it's just chance for the guard to change over. From the brief glimpse they get of the outside world Dean can see the sky has gone dark, but then the van door slams shut and they're driving once again.

It's not long before exhaustion starts to take its toll. They try to sleep again.

By the time the van stops for good, both brothers have managed to snatch a couple hours sleep between them. Their limbs are stiff, and it's difficult to move when the van doors are once again wrenched open and they're yelled at to get to their feet, but it's not like they're given a choice. Sam is grabbed roughly and pulled forcibly from the van by a man in military garb, and once he's been dragged far enough away, Dean is next.

A hard shove lands between Dean's shoulder blades and he stumbles, mentally shooting a glare at the guard behind him. His actual eyes remain fixed up ahead, keeping Sam in his line of sight, though they flit to his surroundings just enough to attempt to guess where they are. The distance between the van and the entrance is too short to glean much. All he can tell is it's a building: grey and imposing, with a cold, military atmosphere that fills his stomach with dread.

They enter a hallway, dauntingly long and lit by harsh strip lights suspended from chains overhead, and then the metal door clangs shut behind them. Sam chances a look back, just for a moment locking eyes with Dean, before a guard manhandles him roughly to face forward again.

Only Dean would be able to tell, but he looks scared.

Both of them are marched on until they reach a junction in the hallway, and Dean feels a sudden surge of panic as he's turned and shoved in a new direction while Sam continues to be led away. They grab one last glance towards each other before Dean rounds the corner and Sam vanishes from sight.

A heavy weight presses down on Dean's chest and it suddenly becomes harder to breathe. Now they're separated. Alone.

He makes the rest of the walk in the same stony silence, drawing small comfort from the knowledge that Sam's doing just the same, before he's finally pushed into a room and barked at to stand up against a wall. They want him with with his back up against it as he's manhandled into place, then finally the cuffs are removed from his wrists and ankles and his limbs feel light again.

"Arms up," the guard orders, and he's frisked, then spun round to face the wall while his legs are patted down. It's the second time they've done this. They'd already taken his weapons off of him back at the motel, but he figures it's a precaution before they leave him standing facing the room again.

Then, they wait.

It's just him and two guards, both fixing him with hard stares of loathing from where they've taken up post a few paces away. Dean glares back, jaw clenched as he tries to look as unintimidated as he's able. One of them is holding an M-16, the same weapon from earlier, and Dean doesn't miss the way his finger tenses and relaxes minutely as he taps at the trigger. Maybe it's just for show, meant to scare rather than portray a serious urge to use it, until Dean remembers that as far as the guard knows, he's just tried to kill the President.

The other guard doesn't have a rifle: different uniform-not the same kind of personnel, Dean guesses-but he still has a taser holstered at his hip. In his hands is a standard-issue police baton, and as he sees Dean eyeing it, he makes a point to tap it menacingly against his opposite palm.

Dean makes a point not to react.

Armed as they are, Dean thinks in usual circumstances he could take them. The gun is too risky in such a confined space, and he thinks he'd stand a chance to take them both out before making a break for it, but he's less confident about what would happen once he made it to the door. He's not leaving without Sam. Not even going to try, and right now his brother could be anywhere.

Instead, Dean goes along with whatever seems to be happening and waits.

He takes the chance to cast his eyes about the room; tries to figure out more about where they are. It doesn't tell him much. The room is small, occupied by a filing cabinet and a few cupboards up against one wall, with a sink in the corner. On the opposite wall is what looks like an exam table, upholstered in black vinyl and a long strip of blue paper laid across the length of it. A box of medical-grade disposable nitrile gloves is sat at one end. Dean thinks he could take a guess what they're for. While this is a far cry from county jail, this isn't his first prison rodeo.

It's maybe fifteen minutes before the door handle turns and somebody finally joins them. Two men enter, one in the same military green uniform as one of the guards, except with a couple more chevrons on the sleeve to denote higher rank. A name embroidered on his breast pocket identifies him as "Sgt. B. Callaghan". The other is an older man, white hair, balding on top, wearing a white lab coat with a stethoscope draped around his neck. In his hands are a set of folded clothes, a canvas bag, and a clipboard.

"You," the soldier barks. "Winchester. Get undressed."

_Fuck,_ Dean thinks, fears confirmed. _Strip search._

There's a beat as he hesitates, more in unpreparedness than defiance, but from his face, they both probably look the same.

Sergeant Callaghan glares. "You not talking?" he says, remarking on Dean's stoic silence. "Well, that doesn't matter, because you _will_ talk, but right now you're going to strip. And if you don't, Private Rydell will help you."

Dean turns his gaze to the private in question, still glaring daggers, then, slowly, begins to obey.

He can feel their eyes on him as he sheds his clothing, first his jacket, then the flannel, before finally peeling off his t-shirt. Sam's amulet rests against his skin, where he keeps it ever since it had been returned, and he notices Callaghan's eyes home in on it.

"Lose the necklace," the sergeant orders.

For a moment, Dean doesn't move. He glares fiercely, defiant as his knuckles clench, and it earns him raised weapons from the guards. No way. They're not taking this, especially not when they've already dragged Sam himself away and this is all Dean's left with. Except it's not exactly like he can stop them.

Slowly, Dean raises his hands to his neck and pulls it off, telling himself _I'll get it back_ as he lets it drop to join the rest of his clothes in a pile. Of course they have to take it. Self-strangulation hazard. Doesn't mean this doesn't hurt worst of all.

Callaghan watches him, then barks, "Alright. Off with the rest of it."

Dean's blushing fiercely by the time he bends to unlace his boots, fighting not to let the humiliation show on his face. He knew to expect this, but it doesn't make it any easier as he pushes his boots and socks to join the pile of his clothes and then moves to the zipper of his jeans. He grits his teeth - _may as well get it over with -_ and pushes down his jeans and boxers in one go. Then he's left standing naked and vulnerable in front of the four men. The air in the room is cold, and he shivers.

He sees Callaghan's eyes flit up and down, giving him a once over before nodding to one of the guards, who goes to pick up Dean's clothes and starts shoving them into the canvas bag. Then he knows it's time for the real ordeal to begin.

The sergeant takes a pair of gloves from the box on the table, making a show of it as he puts them on and snaps the material over his wrists. He flexes his fingers then steps forward, coming to a stop just a foot in front of Dean and being sure to meet his eyes. There's about an inch different in height between them, Dean being slightly taller, but the hardness of Callaghan's stare is enough to compensate. "Arms out," he orders, and with his jaw firmly clenched, Dean does as he told.

He feels hands on him once again, patting down his arms, in his armpits, carefully inspecting the skin, and then Callaghan pulls Dean's arms out in front of him to check his hands. He turns them over a couple of times, inspects Dean's fingernails as if there could be something hidden underneath them when they're cut almost to the quick, then he moves onto the rest of his body. He checks Dean's neck, his shoulders, down to his chest where the anti-possession tattoo gets particular attention, then lower still to his abdomen. A finger gets inserted inside his navel then cold, gloved hands run over his sides.

Dean's done a stint in prison before. He's had his body searched, his skin examined for unusual lumps, cavities checked for any hidden contraband, but this somehow feels even more invasive. Personal.

Once satisfied, the sergeant takes a pace back. "Lean forward."

Dean gives it just a half second defiance before obeying the order. He knows there's no point resisting, but it doesn't mean he has to like it.

Rough hands begin to rake over his scalp and Dean grimaces in discomfort as they check for anything concealed in his hair. He's glad that staring down at least hides his expression, but the view of his own naked body only serves to make him feel more exposed, the blush in his cheeks rising in a way that a solemn glare and clenched jaw can't disguise. When Callaghan yanks his head upright again, he knows he can tell he's embarrassed.

"Mouth open," comes the next order, and Dean doesn't really have a choice as firm fingers pinch his jaw and Callaghan takes a penlight from his breast pocket. He shines it to the back of Dean's throat, makes him lift his tongue, and then gestures to the doctor to hand him a tongue compressor which he uses to inspect the insides of Dean's cheeks. He finishes by thrusting the compressor to the back of Dean's mouth, uncomfortably far and almost making him gag, before checking his throat one last time. Dean flexes his jaw as the sergeant pulls the stick out and discards it.

Dean knows this is standard procedure for a prison strip search, yet he can't help but wonder what it is they think he's hiding. What about this whole situation is "standard"? Why is it they would think he went to kill the president with weapons or contraband hidden on his body?

The answer is, he knows, they don't. But for a supposed would-be terrorist, humiliation makes a great punishment.

Callaghan takes a step back again. "Feet apart," is the next order, followed by "Wider," when Dean doesn't move them far enough, and then the sergeant glances down at Dean's crotch. "I thought you were supposed to be the bigger brother?" he remarks with a smirk, and Dean's blood boils. Putting him through this is one thing, but doing it to Sam...

Seeing the look on his face, Callaghan chuckles. He allows himself the moment of cruel enjoyment before turning businesslike again. "Lift your penis."

There's a pause. Dean takes too long to comply, earning him a threat that seems delivered with more enthusiasm than appropriate. "Lift it, or I will."

A beat, and then Dean wraps his fingers around his dick and does as he's told. The penlight gets shone underneath, the sergeant leaning in uncomfortably close, and then fingers begin to search through his pubes as if something could conceivably be hidden there. "And your balls," Callaghan barks, and Dean has to take a moment to steel himself before lifting his sack to let the man inspect his perineum. He keeps his gaze fixed somewhere around the knees of the guard in front of him, not wanting to look down and watch the way he's being scrutinized.

The sudden cupping of his balls is unexpected, and he jumps, provoking a smirk from one of the guards. He swears this isn't part of the usual protocol, but nonetheless he finds his balls being rolled in Callaghan's palm before the sergeant straightens up. The blush on Dean's cheeks creeps lower, staining his exposed neck and chest pink.

"Turn and face the wall," comes the next order. The words ooze menace.

Slowly, with as much contempt in his face as he can manage, Dean turns. If it hasn't already, he knows the same thing must right now or soon be happening to Sam, and the thought makes him sick.

A footstep sounds as the sergeant steps closer, then the next order comes barely inches from his ear. "Right foot up."

It's a relief that's all it is for now, but Dean knows worse is coming.

He braces himself against the wall for balance and raises his foot behind him, feeling uncomfortably ticklish as the sergeant checks the sole and between his toes, then moves onto his other side. It's followed up by both legs being patted down again, and then Dean hears the man take a pace back. He holds his breath.

"Squat," Callaghan orders. "And cough."

Still facing the wall, Dean grimaces. His fists clench and unclench at his sides, psyching himself up to obey. He doesn't give a crap if this is fucking Guantanamo: a strip search this invasive given the circumstances is gratuitous. They know it, and so does he.

It only takes him a few seconds longer than previously to move, knowing resistance won't make anything easier, but for Callaghan it seems to be too long. "That how you gonna be, huh?" he growls, and Dean almost wants to run his mouth, tell him he's fucking doing it and have a little patience if he's that desperate for a piece of Dean's ass, except that he and Sam have committed to not saying a word.

Not that it matters. The sergeant's just looking for an excuse.

"If that's how you want to play it, Winchester," the soldier snaps, and then Dean doesn't have chance to do anything before he's grabbed by the shoulders, manhandled and maneuvered away from the wall. There's two pairs of hands on him, too strong and grabbing in places he really doesn't want them, and his stomach flips over as he realises this is about to turn ugly. Screw compliance. Dean fights.

He struggles, tries to shake off the death grip around his shoulders and lashes out with a kick, but the second guard steps in and swings the baton towards Dean's stomach. It collides with the tender spot just below his ribs and he gasps, doubling over, and then a third pair of hands joins in to drag him towards the exam table.

He's forced onto it chest first, still struggling, but there's too much weight on top of him as his hands are pinned above his head. A sudden sharp pain stings high on his back, a burning pinprick where his neck meets his shoulder, and as the energy begins to seep from his muscles he realises it's a needle. The sedative spreads quickly, turning his limbs weak and compliant, and then he can't fight anymore.

Hands grab at his thighs, spreading them, and then he sees Callaghan's face, leaning down to look him in the eye. He seems to be enjoying this. "Since you've chosen not to cooperate, Dr Martin here is authorized to perform a full cavity search," he leers. "And we're authorized to do whatever is necessary to assist him. So maybe you can make things easier on yourself and stop struggling."

_Fuck you,_ Dean thinks, and pours as much of the sentiment into his gaze as he can.

Behind him, there's the sound of the doctor pulling on another pair of gloves, cupboard doors opening, and then noises Dean can't identify as he tries to twist his head. He knows he should relax; knows it _would_ make things easier, but right now all of them can get fucked.

When the touch comes, he isn't prepared. A gloved finger probes his rim, cold and slicked with lube, but it isn't enough to ease the burn as it forces its way inside. Dean gasps. His fists clench above his head, cheeks burning an even brighter crimson, and he buries his face in the inside of his arm. Tears prick at his eyes.

It's supposed to be brief. He knows the protocol for a cavity search, but the doctor seems to take a little too long, curling the finger inside him as he feels around. He brushes against Dean's prostate, triggering an involuntary jerk of the prisoner's hips, and it's all Dean can do not to whimper.

When the finger finally pulls out, Dean lets out a trembling breath. He just wants to lie there, wait a few minutes for his legs to stop shaking and just block out everything as if he could escape the terrifying reality of the situation, but he gets no such luxury. He feels another set of fingers tangling in his hair, forcing his head up to look into Sergeant Callaghan's face.

"That wasn't so bad when you stopped fighting now, was it?" he taunts, and Dean feels a rush of loathing. Fuck it if he's just a soldier following orders; if he thinks Dean's the bad guy. He's still a douchebag.

"Now, I can't tell you much about what's in store for you," Callaghan continues. "But I can tell you that before we proceed with it, we need to medically sign you off. So, Dr Martin is going to continue with his medical exam, and you're going to do whatever he asks, understood?"

Dean just glares.

The sergeant smirks. "Oh, that's right, you're not talking." He pats Dean's cheek patronisingly. "Just as well we don't need your consent for any of this."

That's enough to trigger Dean's stomach flipping over again before Callaghan straightens up, exchanging a glance with the doctor somewhere behind Dean. "Leave him there," he hears a new voice say, quieter, yet colder, and somehow even more chilling. "I'll take his temperature rectally."

_Oh fuck._ Immediately, Dean's muscles tense right back up. The two guards are still holding him down and he feels their grip turn tighter, bruising, before once again his ass cheeks are being spread. He grits his teeth as the cool rod of the thermometer is slid into him, then holds his breath. He doesn't know how long it needs to be there, yet he has a feeling they're going to leave it longer than necessary.

It's maybe a minute before Dr Martin decides it's long enough and slides the thermometer out, then Dean hears the sound of a pencil scratching on paper as he notes something down. He doesn't say anything yet, but Dean figures there can't be anything abnormal.

"Alright," the doctor's voice says after a beat. "Sit him up."

The guards' grip on him goes slack and they step away, yet from the corner of his eye Dean sees the non-military one has the taser trained on him, warning him not to try anything. He isn't planning to as he gingerly sits up, drawing his legs together and perching himself on the side of the table. He wants to project an air of confidence, act like he's unperturbed by the whole thing, but he knows he's failing.

The doctor doesn't even look at him as he takes Dean's blood pressure, grabbing his arm for the cuff without even asking and then inflating it uncomfortably tight. He notes something else down on his clipboard before finally addressing Dean directly.

"Any health conditions or medication we should know about?" The doctor waits, seeming to expect (almost naively, Dean thinks) an answer. When he's met with nothing but the same resolute silence as before, he only shrugs. "Suit yourself, son. It isn't me you're hurting." He puts down his clipboard and resumes the examination: brief, almost perfunctory as he goes through Dean's vitals. Fingers dig at his wrist for a pulse, lingering barely a couple of seconds before the stethoscope gets a cursory sweep over his chest and back.

"Heart rate's elevated," the doctor remarks when he turns back to his notes again. "I should mark him as tachycardic, but I'll put it down to nerves and call it normal, in case anyone asks."

No fucking shit his heart's racing, yet that still sounds to Dean like good, old-fashioned malpractice. Not that he can do anything but glare at the doc in contempt.

The next part consists of a penlight being shone in his eyes, the lids lifted uncomfortably and inspected underneath, then an otoscope is inserted into each of his ears. His mouth gets another brief check, then his nose, before the doctor finishes up by feeling the glands in his neck. Dr Martin doesn't seem to care to examine him in any depth before checking off a few more things on his clipboard, then turns to retrieve something from the cupboards and heads over to the sink.

He's doing something Dean can't quite see, prepping another piece of equipment, but when he turns back, light glinting off the object in his hand, Dean feels his mouth go dry.

_Fucking needles._

"Hold still," he's ordered as the doc secures a tourniquet around his arm, still aching from the BP cuff, and then starts slapping at his skin to draw veins to the surface. Fingers probe for a pulse, apparently satisfied with a spot a half inch or so from the crease of his elbow, and then Dean winces as the sharp tip of the syringe pushes in. It fucking hurts.

He waits, expecting to see his blood gush out to fill the vial attached to the needle, but there's only a trickle. Apparently, the doctor missed, and Dean's not too sure it was accidental.

"Don't move," he's reminded harshly, face contorting in a grimace as Dr Martin pulls the needle part way out and then moves it around inside him before pushing it back in. This time, he hits a vein. Dean sees the expected rush of deep crimson spill out, a handful of bubbles forming inside the tube, and, nauseous, he has to look away.

The doc takes a couple of samples before finally pulling the needle out, placing a cotton bud over the puncture site and instructing Dean to keep the pressure on as he once again turns away.

Dean does as he's told, feeling that it's the only order that's actually been in his own interest since he got here, before the doc returns and replaces his fingers with a strip of medical tape. "On your back," Dr Martin says.

There's no point fighting by now. Dean obeys, easing himself back to lay on the strip of paper covering the exam table. Dr Martin stands beside him, eyes peering up and down the length of his body.

The doctor still doesn't say a word before touching him again. _How easy it must make his job,_ Dean thinks, to not have to communicate with patients; not ask permission; not explain what he's doing. To him, Dean isn't even a person. Just an inmate. An object.

Gloved hands feel across his torso, briefly probing between his ribs before moving to examine his abdomen. The doc seems to pay particular attention to the soft spot just below his ribcage, over his stomach, before pressing down more deeply than comfortable over his guts. "I know you're not talking," Dr Martin remarks. "But have you swallowed anything we should know about? It's for your own good." He pauses, waiting, but is met with only silence. "I'm talking foreign objects: weapons, drugs."

That still gets nothing. The doctor sighs. "Have it your way." He turns to Sergeant Callaghan, leaning in close to murmur in his ear, but if Dean strains his ears he can still discern some of what's being said.

"I can't feel any masses in his stomach or intestines, but there's too much muscle to palpate clearly. We'll need to do a more thorough check."

Callaghan nods, then murmurs something Dean can't make out. Dr Martin apparently agrees.

"Hayes!" the sergeant suddenly calls out, and the guard not in khaki uniform suddenly snaps to attention.

"Sir?" He crosses to his superior to receive his orders in a hushed tone.

Callaghan still speaks too softly for Dean to hear, but Dr Martin interjects loud enough that Dean feels a flutter of nerves. "Bring both machines. I want to follow up on the tachycardia."

Hayes nods and gives a, "Yes, sir," before turning to leave the room.

Once again, they wait. If anything, this time it's worse, images of Sam being subjected to the same humiliation running through his mind. It's traumatic enough for Dean, but for his brother…

Almost subconsciously, Dean's hands ball into fists. Not particularly impressive fists, the sedative still lingering in his system, but it still gets Callaghan's attention. "Don't go getting any ideas," he snaps. "You just stay right where you are, Winchester."

Dean turns his head to shoot him a glare. _Fuck that,_ he thinks, starting to prop himself up again rather than just helplessly lying there. It gets a reaction. Callaghan strides over to him, placing a hand across his chest to shove him back down. " _Stay down,_ " he snarls, then leers. "I don't know why you're fighting so hard. Your brother loved the attention."

It's bait, and Dean knows it, but that doesn't matter. He sees red.

For the first time, he breaks his silence, no words but a grunt of anger as he spits. His arms lift and he tries to swing a clumsy punch, then immediately feels a stab of regret as a look of satisfaction flits across Callaghan's face. He gets a fist across his face for his efforts.

"Rydell!" the sergeant orders, then immediately he's pinned again, Rydell holding him down while Callaghan reaches for something below the table.

He's still protesting feebly, eyes wide as he wonders what's going on, then sees the metal bars being folded out from the table's underside. They lock into place and Dean sees the cuffs on the end before his hands are being forced up and into them.

Callaghan secures them tightly and Dean growls again, mad at both them and himself. Maybe he should have suspected that an exam table in a prison unit would have restraints, but he gave them that excuse.

"See if that helps you behave," Callaghan says as he secures Dean's ankles, and then straightens up to wipe the spit from his face. Dean huffs.

It takes Hayes another five minutes to return, the sounds of wheels screeching over a concrete floor reaching Dean's ears before he's even entered the room. He needs help with the door, pushing in a large device on wheels that consists of what looks like a screen and an overhead arm connecting it to a camera. Dean's not seen one before, but he's familiar enough with the usual version to tell what it is: portable x-ray.

Honestly, that comes as a relief.

Hayes lifts a device he'd been carrying on top of the x-ray unit and hands it to Dr Martin, who nods in approval and switches it on. As far as Dean can tell, it's just a handheld box with a screen and lots of wires coming out, but then the doctor crosses back over to him.

He starts placing stickers on Dean's chest, one below each shoulder and another over his lower left ribcage before attaching the wires, and for a moment Dean worries he's about to get shocked. Then he figures it's just a heart monitor.

The doctor watches the readout on the screen, machine beeping softly, and frowns. "I can't sign off with this. If he presents with any heart rate abnormalities, it could make you look negligent if anything were to…" He seems to be about to reveal something, then catches himself, not wanting to say it in front of Dean. "Happen."

Callaghan scowls in irritation. "Didn't you say you could put it down to nerves?"

"I could, but just to be on the safe side, I'm going to give him another dose," he announces, putting the monitor down briefly to go prep another needle. "Should bring his heart rate down a little more, then I'll print that one for his file."

_You asshole,_ Dean thinks, but it's not like protesting would change anything. He wonders why they need to be so sure to give him a clean bill of health before moving him onto...well, wherever, but it feels ominous. And not entirely legal.

Dean feels another stinging sensation, this time in his upper arm, then they leave him there a minute or two while the drug starts to take effect. This time it's not just his limbs that start to feel thick, his head begin to grow clouded and woozy. His pulse beats in his temples, gradually slowing.

After a brief while, Dr Martin pulls the leads from his chest again. "Alright, I'm going to x-ray his stomach. He's dosed up; you'll need to help him stand."

Dean's still kind of out of it as they undo his restraints and drag him to his feet, but his head has started to clear by the time the doctor gets him set up inside the x-ray machine. The screen gets positioned behind his abdomen, he's told to hold still, then the machine gives a hum and a _clack._

Dr Martin waits a minute before retrieving the film and examining the images of Dean's insides. "Stomach's clear," he reports, and Dean wonders if they genuinely thought he might have swallowed a cocaine-stuffed condom or shoved a penknife or whatever the fuck up his ass. Somehow, he doubts it.

"Guts, too," Dr Martin clarifies, then Dean's dragged out of the machine again and brought to stand in front of Callaghan as the doctor finishes up his notes. Dr Martin makes a final check on the clipboard, then turns to the sergeant. "He's medically sound for incarceration."

"And fit for interrogation?"

"No signs of any pre-existing conditions that could make you...liable."

Callaghan pauses deliberately, then fixes Dean with a smirk. "That make you nervous, huh, Winchester?"

_Not nervous,_ Dean thinks, _pissed,_ but the only thing he gives the soldier is a dirty look.

"Alright," the sergeant says, finally seeming to have had enough. "Put these on." He thrusts the clothes at Dean that the doctor had carried in: a navy jumpsuit, a pair of underpants, and plain white socks.

The scowl doesn't leave Dean's face as he accepts them, trying not to look in a hurry to get dressed, but he can't pretend it isn't a relief to finally be covered again. His limbs are still heavy and sluggish from the sedative, making it more of a challenge than it should be, but nonetheless it doesn't take long. He doesn't meet any of their eyes as he finishes buttoning up the jumpsuit, then he's handed a pair of black work boots and bends down to lace them up.

When he lifts his head again, he sees Private Rydell waiting for him with cuffs and chains. _Of course._

Resigned, Dean holds out his arms for them to be clamped in place, and then he's marched back out into the hall.


	2. The Nights That Follow

The cell is lonely. The ring of the metal door colliding with its frame seems to echo from the concrete walls long after it's slammed shut, and Dean would do anything just to break the silence. Except still he's not going to talk.

He lies back on the bed, jumpsuit scratching uncomfortably at his skin with each slight movement, and turns to face the wall. Fingertips reach out to trace a nondescript shape on the concrete, then he presses his palm flat over it. Sam should be there, just a few meters away, with only the solid block of concrete between them. So close and yet so far.

A thought occurs to Dean. He supposes it's worth a shot. He makes a fist and knocks.

The sound echoes off the walls, too loud in the tiny cell. Dean waits, silently hoping for a response. He doesn't know what he's expecting: that they'll Morse code each other like in a movie, passing time with conversations in dots and dashes, but the thought is just a fancy.

There's nothing.

Dean turns away from the wall, and closes his eyes to hold onto the image of Sam in his mind. He hopes it's not the last image of him he'll ever have.

* * *

If his sleep cycles can be trusted, it's four days before Dean sees another human being again. It's hard to tell when the fluorescent strip in the ceiling never turns off, keeping the cell bathed in a constant dull glow, but Dean's been scratching out the days on the wall as best he's able with an old screw he found under the bed.

He's gotten used to the routine by now, the anonymous hand pushing the tray through the door at mealtimes to the grating sound of the hatch sliding open, but the altogether louder clunking of the locks turning and the door creaking on its hinges makes him start.

He'd been on the bed facing the wall, but his head twists round suddenly and his eyes widen as he hurries to sit up. His stony glare is back in place by the time a guard steps through the door, clutching a pair of handcuffs. "You," he barks. "Up."

Dean does as he's told. There are two of them, and together they spin him round to face the wall, cuff his hands behind his back, then he's given a shove through the door. He has no idea where he's being taken. Hell, it could be to an execution block, for all he knows, but as he's marched down the corridor then told to halt when they reach the room at the end, he realises it's just the showers.

The cuffs come off, one of the guards making a point off showing the gun at his hip in silent warning, then Dean's pushed towards a changing bench. "Strip," one of them orders.

He should be humiliated. After four days left to stew in the cell, no showers, no change of scenery, he's practically grateful. Dean peels off the jumpsuit, waits for a nod of permission from one of them, then crosses towards the stalls.

He's just thinking that all things considered, this is almost a relief, when he feels a hand slap his ass.

Shocked, he halts, turns to look at the guard behind him as if wondering if that was deliberate. All he gets is a smirk. "Something the matter, Winchester?"

Dean grits his teeth and stares stoically back, pouring as much contempt as he can into the glare. This is how it's gonna be, then.

He ignores the provocation and steps into the shower, drawing what small pleasure he can from it despite the lukewarm temperature and nonexistent water pressure. They make him shut it off after five minutes and he steps out to towel off, one of them giving him a look of disdain while the other is giving a look far more lecherous. He's scrutinising Dean way too closely, almost seeming to devour him with his eyes, and it makes Dean's skin crawl.

Eventually they hand him a fresh jumpsuit, a safety razor and some shaving cream, plus a toothbrush and some toothpaste. Dean makes the most of it, figuring they're luxuries he won't be having for a few more days, before they march him back to his cell. He listens out for the sound of them doing the same with Sam afterwards, but there's nothing.

When his next shower comes in a few days' time, he's grateful to see it's a different guard.

* * *

Dean gets sick some time around the start of the third week. He's not sure what brought it on, how he's even managed to catch a virus locked as he is in total isolation, but one morning he wakes up and scrambles to the toilet to puke his guts out. He's there for thirty minutes before he finally thinks his stomach contents have entirely emptied and he gets up the energy to crawl back to the bed.

An hour later, the fever starts.

It brings with it hallucinations, semi-lucid dreams where he can't even tell if he's asleep or awake. He imagines trying the door, finding the lock is broken before wandering through the compound crying out Sam's name. He dreams of outside, feels rain on his skin and smells tree bark and grass and can't remember how he got there. More than once, he hears Cas' voice, jolting him harshly back to the nearest he gets to reality and feels a rush of hope, only to look over his shoulder and realise there's no-one there.

At one point, there's a knocking on the wall, his heart leaps as he wonders if it's Sam, then later he has no idea if it was even real or not.

The heat gets too much. His skin is overly sensitive, the heavy fabric of the jumpsuit suffocating as it clings to his sweat-soaked skin, and he ends up peeling it off and lying under the ratty blanket they've provided on top of the mattress.

Another half hour, and he's so fucking _freezing_ he pulls it back on, wraps the blanket around him and curls into a shivering ball on the bed.

The hours pass and nobody comes.

* * *

"You're not sounding well in there, Dean."

Dean hears the voice through the hatch in the door when they come to collect his untouched lunch tray. It's the nameless suit who'd given him the pep talk when he first got here, come back to gloat a little more.

"I notice you've lost your appetite. Do try to eat. We don't want you wasting away on us."

It's an effort to even lift his head to look, but he tries, giving the best glare he can manage with a stuffy nose and red eyes.

"Excuse me if I don't come in, wouldn't want to catch anything. But if you like, I could arrange for a doctor to come see you." There's a pause, and Dean waits for the catch. "Of course, that would require a little co-operation on your part. Maybe if you told us a little about what happened with the President. Why you would do such a thing."

He looks at Dean expectantly, as if he's already assumed this is bound to work. A thought flashes through Dean's mind as he wonders if this wasn't an accident. Was this what the thorough medical exam on the way in had been about? Legally, they can't torture him, maybe. If he gets horrendously sick, who's to say they're culpable?

Either way, it isn't going to change Dean's answer. He summons all the energy he has to lift his hand and flip the fed off.

It draws a glare: hard, affronted, but also a little surprised. "Suit yourself." He slams the hatch shut.

That glimmer of shocked indignation on his face is like a medicine in itself as Dean tries to settle back to sleep.

* * *

The secret serviceman is back the next day.

"You're not talking. Don't worry, I understand," Dean hears through the hatch. "Your throat's sore, voice is going. I get it. But that's no reason you and I can't still make a deal."

Dean rolls over in bed, looks blearily in his direction, but he's already certain what the answer will be.

"I'm going to pass you this piece of paper," the fed continues, placing said paper on the tray in the door. "And you're gonna write something on it. Maybe about why you tried to kill the President. Maybe how you were able to get so close. Take your time, I won't rush you. Then I'm gonna come back in an hour and you're gonna pass it back to me, and I'll pass this pack of Tylenol and a glass of water through the door."

Dean doesn't move, just watches in silence as the sheet of paper and a wax crayon appears through the hatch usually reserved for food. He doesn't even bother to get out of bed.

He hears the sigh when the agent returns an hour later to collect the blank sheet. "That really is too bad, Dean." The hatch slams closed.

Dean shuts his eyes and tries to convince himself he doesn't need the meds.

* * *

The coughing doesn't let up. After three more days of it, it seems that they finally start to worry enough to send in a doctor (without any strings attached). It isn't Martin--a younger guy looking fresh out of med school and nervous as fuck as he checks Dean over.

"Deep breath," he instructs as he listens to Dean's lungs, and Dean does his best to inhale against the pain before breaking out in another coughing fit.

The doctor finishes up quickly, mostly in a hurry to get out of Dean's close proximity (despite the armed guard standing right next to them and the fact Dean's in no state try _anything_ ) then goes to exchange words with the fed. He's keeping a safe distance just outside the cell, and Dean's ears already feel like they're underwater, but he thinks he's able to catch a few words. " _Flu...pneumonia…possibly bacterial..."_ Maybe that's just his own brain filling in the blanks as he tries to guess a diagnosis.

" _Is there any risk of him dropping down dead?"_

That sentence is clear enough. He doesn't catch the reply.

They leave him to his misery again not long after, but when the next meal comes, it's accompanied by a bottle of water and two antibiotic pills.

* * *

Going days without a shower is a torture in itself. Even Dean is starting to gag on the stink inside the cell, and his sense of smell is certainly coming back after a full course of the antibiotics. The brief chance to just walk around somewhere that isn't this _box,_ to get clean, has almost become something to look forward to, if only the scheduling of it weren't so inconsistent.

Five weeks, Dean guesses. More? He'd given up on his wall scratchings too long ago to know with any certainty, yet he's still able to count the number of showers they've allowed him on one hand. God knows when the next one will be.

If there's one thing (a tiny iota of a thing in this whole hopeless scenario) that he's grateful for, it's that the creeper guard hasn't supervised him again. His stomach drops the next time the cell door opens and he's faced with that familiar leer.

"Man, it stinks in here. Time to clean you up," he says as Dean stands and allows his hands to be cuffed. "Let's go, Winchester."

When it comes to stripping down, this time Dean's far more wary, watching his back as he removes the jumpsuit and waits for permission to enter the shower stall. When a crackle of static comes over the other guard's radio, he feels the first flutter of nerves.

" _Situation in Area C. Request assistance."_

The two of them exchange a look. Sly. Knowing. "You gonna get that?" the lech says, and the other one nods and turns away with a smirk, mumbling something like " _Copy,_ " into his radio.

Once he's gone, the two of them stand facing each other, squaring off. Dean's mouth has gone dry.

"Well, go on then, Winchester," the guard finally says.

Dean's not sure what choice he has but to go along with it, or make the situation worse. His feet feel leaden as he steps across the tiles, keeping an eye on the guard, and he hates that he has to turn his back to reach for the dial.

The shower starts up without incident and Dean tries to carry on as normal, but he can feel the guard's eyes on him, making his skin crawl no matter how hard he scrubs at it with the soap. His stomach feels leaden when he knows his time is up, and turns to shut off the water.

He's expecting it, but still not ready for it when it comes.

A hard shove lands against his back, slamming him into the wall, then there's an arm across his shoulders pinning him in place.

"You know, I've wanted to do this for a while," he hears a soft voice drawl right by his ear, hot breath on his neck. "But it seemed my roster never lined up, then you got sick and I didn't want to catch anything, but now here we are. It all worked out in the end."

Dean struggles, feeling the weight of a body pressed against him as he hears the faint sound of a zipper unfastening. A hand begins to knead his damp ass as a fingertip creeps towards his hole. He squirms, mind racing as he wonders if fighting back could possibly make things worse. _Don't give them an excuse to use their guns…_

"Aw, come on. Behave," the guard chastises. "You're my first choice, so why don't you be a good boy and play nice. Or I might have to try out your brother instead."

That's what does it. Dean sees red. Without evening thinking, he slams his head back, making a loud crunch where he hits the guard's nose in a reverse headbutt.

Taken by surprise, the guard reels back, cries out, then Dean's spinning him, reversing their positions until he has him slammed up against the wall. Dean presses an arm over his throat, leaning in close as he makes sure the guard looks him in the eye. "You touch my brother," he snarls, voice harsh and alien even to his own ears. "I swear I'll rip your throat out."

Momentarily, the guard looks stunned. His eyes widen, then an inexplicable smirk crosses his features. Dean has just long enough to wonder why before he feels two sharp points dig into the base of his ribcage.

A taser. Wet skin. The guard is insulated. Dean is not.

The guard squeezes the trigger and Dean goes down, screaming as he feels the volts rip through his muscles with a horrible, panic-inducing sense of deja vu. He's on his knees when the guard comes to stand over him again, leering down with a sadistic, vindictive look in his eyes.

"So, you _can_ talk then?" he remarks, before Dean feels a fist collide with his cheek and his face hits the tiles. He tastes blood in his mouth.

He's still paralysed from fear and pain when the backup arrives to drag him away.

* * *

Back in the cell, Dean sits on the side of the bed and drags a hand over his face. The look in the guard's eyes is burned into his mind.

" _You're my first choice, so why don't you be a good boy and play nice. Or I might have to try out your brother instead."_

It feels like a solid block of ice has settled in the pit of Dean's stomach. _Please don't let him hurt Sam…_

There's nothing he can do. Not from here. Even if he finally swallowed his pride and tried to speak to someone in charge, they won't help him. Not without getting something he can't give in return.

Dean screws his eyes shut and balls his fists, fear and anger and frustration coursing through him. There's only one way they're getting out of here. It's the last of last resorts that hardly bears thinking about, but there's no way he's letting anything worse happen to Sam. He can't.

Dean takes a breath and clears his throat. He works the muscles in his larynx and tries to find his voice, hoarse from the days spent not speaking at all. "Billie…"


End file.
